Michael and Fiona Fall In Love
by A.B. Allaway
Summary: Chapters 13 and 14 added to the story that takes us back to Ireland, when Michael and Fiona first meet.
1. Chapter 1

_Readers, be patient for a page or two. The scene must be set before Michael Westen can arrive. It is August of 1998. The Provisional IRA has established a ceasefire, but certain splinter groups known as dissident IRA groups insist that the violence must go on…_

Fiona ran her fingers through Donovan's thick, black hair. It was dripping from the torrential rain they had just escaped. Planting bombs was an aphrodisiac for him, so as they had briskly walked away from the old post office in the heart of Belfast that night, Fi knew she would soon be faking passion for this brutal, callous man. Now, as they lay in his bed, with the mass of his six foot, robust frame on top of her lithe body, she ran her hands down his back. The tips of her fingers exerted just enough pressure to tell him she wanted it. Endorphins still coursing through his body from their recent excursion, he responded by lifting her right leg to hook around his waist, pressing his groin harder against her, and forcing his tongue deep into her mouth. He began to kiss her neck, and she sighed with feigned pleasure to encourage him. She didn't love Donovan. She didn't even like him, but he was good in bed, so this was not the worst part of her cover ID. Although a part of her resented having to give herself to him every night, another part of her loved the empty, emotionless sex.

*******

Engagement, for Fiona, was not a romantic term. She engaged the enemy. She engaged in hand to hand combat. She engaged the safety on her Browning 9mm pistol. She did not "engage" in romantic entanglements. So when orders were received from Cole Murray, Provisional IRA Director of Intelligence, to "engage in a romantic relationship" with Donovan Gallagher, she was irritated. Years as a volunteer for the IRA, an asset with more expertise in arms and explosives than many of the council members combined, and she had been enlisted to charm a man. She had given herself to men before, in order to get a job done. She never thought of it as sacrificing her dignity, because she had made those calls, whether planned ahead as part of an operation, or done spur of the moment when an opportunity arose to take advantage of a high-powered delegate. She had always been the one in control. Fortunately, it was also a brand of risqué sex that she sometimes enjoyed.

This assignment, however, would be different. Maintaining a long-term cover ID with Donovan Gallagher would require her to relinquish some of that control. She could still be hard. Aggressive. Violent even, but in her relationship with Donovan, she would also have to be submissive. Donovan was the leader of a unit belonging to a fledgling paramilitary group, one that had branched off from the Provisional IRA due to disagreement over the ceasefire. He was cold, and he had less regard for human life than any other operative she had worked with. His latest target had been a hospital, a mecca for helpless civilians. Mass casualties were not just an unavoidable consequence of bombings for Donovan Gallagher; they were the goal. The deadly agenda of this branch was undermining the political goals of the Provisional IRA, and even they had a limit to the level of violence they would condone. She reluctantly accepted her obligation to infiltrate Gallagher's unit.

Baiting him was easy. A chance meeting at his favorite pub, a seductive glance to reel him to her side, and a look of awe on her face when she saw his revolver poking out from behind his jacket. He was so taken aback by her beauty that his reaction time was stunted, and she had already extended her arm before he had the chance to process the fact that a stranger was reaching for his gun. The weapon rested firmly in a holster on his side, and she stroked it the way he could only imagine she might stroke him. He stood still as she continued her examination of his firearm, and he took in the sight of the striking woman before him.

"Careful," he said. "That's a powerful weapon."

"Not too powerful for you?" she questioned in insincere admiration.

"Nothing is." He replied. His masculinity sufficiently bolstered, he bought her a drink.

Fiona went home with Donovan Gallagher that night, gave him a night he would never forget, and when they woke up together the next morning, he claimed her for his own.

*******

It had been three months since Fiona assumed the role of Donovan's lover, confidant, and bomb specialist. She knew she could never disguise her proficiency with explosives or her agility with guns, so she explained that she had defected from the Provisional IRA out of disgust over the ceasefire, an explanation he was eager to accept. It turned him on.

In her short time with him, she learned that the group she infiltrated had a much vaster network than anyone previously thought. There were many other units like the one Donovan led, but under his obsessive leadership, his was the one planning the greatest atrocity.

The Post office job that night was small. Donovan was bored, because the big job coming up was still in the developmental stages. Fi needed to stick around long enough to obtain sufficient intel for stopping the operation, and it seemed she might not have all of the pertinent information until just before the strike.

As they lay in bed, Fi stroked Donovan's chest. "Tomorrow's our three month anniversary, Donovan. Are you going to take me somewhere nice for dinner?"

"I can't. I'm meeting with a contact."

"IRA?"

"No. Not yet. But, I'm about to recruit him."

"Since when do you recruit? Isn't that someone else's job?"

"Not this time. I'm not going to let someone else screw this up. I want this guy on my unit."

"What's so special about him?"

"He played an integral part in the Lisburn bombings in April. He's apparently an encyclopedia of knowledge when it comes to bombs and breaking and entering."

"No different from any other operative we know," Fi said dryly.

"This guy is good. And he doesn't shy away from civilian casualty. I want him for the September job. I need someone with no boundaries to get the job done."

"Sounds like a real asset. What's his name?"

"Michael McBride."


	2. Chapter 2

Michael arrived to the park early. He always took this precaution when meeting with a new contact, just in case things didn't run as smoothly as he would like. Meticulous observation of his surroundings before the meeting ensured that he could take advantage of any number of escape routes should his contact turn out to work for one of the many people who wanted him dead. This actually happened a lot. This particular venue offered many possibilities for sudden flight, but few could provide cover from bullets. Michael settled on a fountain, which was situated in the center of the park.

He sat down at the edge of the fountain, and ran his hand through the water, all the while keeping his head up to scan for anything unusual. The water was cold, as the overcast skies of Belfast rarely allowed the sun to shine through long enough to warm it. Michael had spent the past few months in the Middle East, so to him, the 65 degree summers in Ireland seemed frigid. He reminded himself that he would have to "man up" if he wanted to pass for a man who had lived in Ireland his whole life.

He had been given very little information from the agency that hired him about the man he was about to meet. His name was Donovan Gallagher, and he was the leader of a unit of a dissident IRA group. Recent intel had indicated that Donovan was planning a major attack in Belfast, one that would have a high death toll and a significant impact on the economic infrastructure of Northern Ireland. Michael was to infiltrate Donovan's unit, obtain intel, and ultimately prevent this major act of terrorism.

*******

When attempting to infiltrate a paramilitary group, independent terror campaigns are the equivalent of a job application. Michael knew that in order to gain the confidence of Donovan and his superiors, he would need to show them what he was capable of. Blowing up a building was a great way to do this, and it served the simultaneous purpose of proving that he was not the police. Which is why he had found himself in Lisburn last month, strapped to a rather large bomb in the city hall. In order to avoid any loss of human life, while still maintaining the appearance of having no regard for it, he needed to demonstrate that his alias Michael McBride had plotted to kill countless citizens. So, he fastened an exorbitant amount of C4 to his chest, walked into city hall with detonator in hand, and announced "My name is Evan O' Connor. I am being forced by a man named Michael McBride, who has my family in captivity, to act as a suicide bomber. I am truly sorry for what I am about to do."

Screams ensued. Michael allowed himself to be tackled by a security guard and put up a weak fight just long enough for everyone to escape. He fought the guard off, and recommended that he make his exit as well. As the perimeter of the structure was cleared by the local police and British soldiers, Michael swept the building to ensure there were no stragglers hiding in bathroom stalls or broom closets. He unstrapped the C4, left it sitting on the main floor, made a covert exit in classic Michael Westen style, and then detonated the bomb remotely.

A series of car bombings that same week and a burglary at a major bank secured the reputation of Michael McBride. Newspapers speculated on the origin of the suicide bomber and the fate of his family, but the police never confirmed anything and merely stated that it was all part of an ongoing investigation. Several weeks later, Michael had successfully manipulated Donovan Gallagher to reach out to him via a series of channels.

*******

Michael observed with his peripheral vision as a tall, well-built, black haired man approached him from his right. The man sat down at the edge of the fountain several feet away, but looked off into the distance as if not to notice him. Neither had met before, so they had nothing but general descriptions to go on. Michael wasn't the type to carry a red rose or a copy of "War and Peace" to provide recognition for his contacts, because it left him feeling like a sitting duck. So, instead, he often found himself participating in a virtual mating ritual of spies.

An experienced professional can tell the difference between an operative waiting to make contact and an arbitrary man staring off into the sunset, but you can never be too careful. Michael briefly glanced over at the man, and when the two made eye contact, he gave the kind of nod strangers give to acknowledge each other, then looked away again.

The dark haired man finally spoke first.

"I like your style."

Michael was pretty sure this guy wasn't referring to his dark-washed jeans and long-sleeved, black cotton shirt ensemble. He replied in his faux Irish accent, "I didn't know I had a style, but thank you all the same."

"I would describe it as Hitler-chic or Cromwell-meets-Picasso," the man stated.

Yes, this was definitely his contact, and Michael was already certain that he did not like him.

"You have a particular skill set that would be highly valued on my unit."

"And what exactly is that?" The Irish brogue felt natural to him as it rolled off his tongue.

"Highly organized treachery and general disregard for the law."

"Is that all? Not such a commodity around here," Michael replied.

"Did I mention breaking and entering and bomb assembly?"

Michael waited a few moments to respond, deliberately building up the tension for his contact.

"What is your proposal?"

"I've got a big job coming up next month- a bombing at Mullan Industrial Park. Could use some help with ironing out the details. Could also use some help with some smaller jobs leading up to that."

Michael knew Donovan would be suspicious if he agreed too quickly, so he acted dubious.

"I like to work alone. It eliminates trust issues."

"You don't have to do any jobs with anyone you don't approve of," Donovan offered.

"How experienced are the other men on your unit?"

"They've got several years and dozens of bombings between them. I don't take amateurs on my unit. Too risky, and I don't have the patience to train them."

"Any security risks?"

"I keep a close eye on my men, and I have them monitored at random to prevent any breaches. None of them would ever have the balls to inform on me- I cut the tongue out of the last guy who tried. He's rotting at the bottom of River Lagan, now."

The prospect of losing his tongue should have deterred Michael, but he'd been faced with riskier scenarios. He decided it was time to seal the deal with this psychopath.

"I don't work for anyone, and I don't take orders," Michael asserted.

"Done."

Michael could tell that Donovan was the type of guy who ruled by fear and always made sure that the people in his unit knew who was in control. It would be important to establish the dynamic of their working relationship right away, so Donovan didn't fall under the mistaken impression that Michael was his inferior.

"You keep me in the dark about anything, and _you'll_ be the one napping at the bottom of River Lagan," said Michael.

"Understood," said Donovan. "Our next meeting is tomorrow night at seven, in the old warehouse across from O'Malley's pub. Come hungry, because my girl is cooking supper."

"Your girl?"

"Yeah, Fiona. You're going to love her."


	3. Chapter 3

Fiona resented the domestic role she was required to take on as part of her cover ID. Donovan didn't care if her specialty in the kitchen was homemade explosives- He still expected any woman of his to make his dinner every night. She glared at Donovan, who sat in a worn recliner in the middle of the old warehouse apartment. He was reviewing the schematics for the upcoming attack, while lazily chugging a beer. She stood before a cauldron-like pot of boiling water, and bit her lower lip in concentration. She didn't like following recipes unless the main ingredients included sulfuric acid or sodium hydroxide. However, she would soon have hungry IRA terrorists to feed, so she angrily dumped some coarsely chopped carrots into the pot. A knock came at the door, and Donovan rose to answer it.

"Michael, welcome."

Fiona looked up to see a tall man with brown hair and a stern expression walk through the door. He said nothing, but nodded to Donovan, and then non-discreetly scanned the apartment.

Michael took a mental note of the open floor plan, while his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit apartment. Dark gray, brick walls and a cement floor gave it a bleak atmosphere. The air smelled of mildew mixed with the onions and carrots stewing in the kitchen. When his gaze arrived on Fiona, it seemed to settle for a moment, and she felt his stare penetrate her. It bothered her that this made her so uneasy.

"Michael, this is Fiona, my gorgeous girlfriend. Fiona, would you get our guest a beer?"

"Absolutely, you self-righteous bastard," she said under her breath.

"Michael, make yourself comfortable. The rest of my crew has yet to arrive. They're finishing up some recon work for me, but should be here soon. If you'll excuse me for a few minutes, I've got a call to make."

Donovan retreated to the bedroom on the far right of the apartment, no doubt to call his fellow unit leaders and inform them that the infamous Michael McBride had actually shown up. Fiona grabbed a bottle of beer from the refrigerator and popped off the cap. Michael walked over to the kitchen area to retrieve it. She handed it to him with a clearly skeptical look on her face. Michael could tell that she was not going to be so trusting. The tension between these two strangers was thick, and neither bothered to force a smile.

"Thank you, Fiona," he said smugly as he put the bottle to his lips.

Michael sat down on a stool, behind the counter where Fiona was chopping vegetables. He examined her shamelessly. She wore jeans and a white tank top. She was petite, very fragile looking, but nothing in the way she carried herself suggested she was delicate. She stood with a fierce posture, and wielded a butcher knife with disturbing vigor. He thought she was stunning. He realized he hadn't heard her speak yet, and strangely yearned to hear her voice.

"What are you making?" he asked in his dark Irish lilt.

Fi was annoyed at his blatant staring, and chose not to answer.

"Must be difficult cooking for such a large crowd of men."

She lifted her eyes and glared at him. He took another swig of his beer.

"Not much of a talker?"

She decided to end her oath of silence, and read the next line in the cookbook out loud. "Brown the meat on both sides, four minutes per side." She stared thoughtfully at the pan of sizzling red meat, and then walked over to the cabinet over the sink. Michael watched as she stood on her toes and reached over her head to open it. Her shirt rose a little bit to give him a glimpse of flesh at her lower back. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

She retrieved a bottle of high-proof alcohol from the cabinet. "I think I can speed that process up a bit," she said with a severe expression on her face. She removed the cap and proceeded to douse the meat in a healthy serving of ethyl alcohol. Flames erupted from the pan, a swirl of blue and orange that rose to the ceiling and licked at the wooden beams overhead. Michael quickly and instinctively leaned back to avoid singeing off his eyebrows. Fiona just stood there with a mischievous smile on her face and a gleam in her eye. Michael got the sense that this woman could be dangerous.

*******

Fiona observed the latest addition to the team, as he hungrily ate her mystery concoction. He sat on the old green sofa with a stone-faced expression, and concentrated solely on his brimming bowl of stew. He was quiet and withdrawn from the rest of the men, almost brooding. He didn't seem to mind the lumps in the gravy or the leathery meat, and she found herself oddly turned on by the sumptuous manner in which he ate. He slowly and deliberately lifted each bite to his mouth, and Fiona watched the angles of his jaw as it intently worked each mouthful. There was nothing refined about it, but rather crude. It was as though each bite he took profoundly satisfied his bodies need for sustenance. She studied him as he savored each bite not for the flavor, but for the fulfillment it provided to his appetite. He was handsome, despite several scars on his face. They enhanced his masculinity. He was slender, but the contours of a well-defined physique could be made out from beneath his shirt. Fiona found herself strangely drawn to this brooding man with the healthy appetite and muscular build.

'Don't be foolish' she thought to herself. 'This man is a monster.' She forced herself to look away.


	4. Chapter 4

The first meeting had revealed that Michael's role in the plot would involve a cooperative bomb-planting effort with Fiona.

"_She's_ your bomb specialist?" Michael had asked in surprise. He couldn't believe that someone so small could take responsibility for such destruction.

"Yeah," said Donovan proudly. "She can wire a detonator like no other."

Fiona had just smiled solemnly.

Two nights later, Michael arrived for his next meeting with Donovan, and knocked on the door. Fiona answered the door wearing a white sundress.

"Hello, Michael," She said coldly. "Donovan's not home yet, but you can come in and wait."

She closed the door behind him, and he followed her into the living area. He watched the hem of her dress catch the air and float up her thighs with each step that she took. Muffled voices could be heard from the television.

"What are you watching?" His deep, baritone voice was reserved, but strong.

"A documentary on the history of trench warfare. Did you know that the M9 bayonet was designed to double as a wire cutter?"

"I didn't know that."

He took a seat on the couch in the same spot he had sat the night before, when Fiona had curiously watched him devour his dinner.

They sat in silence and avoided eye contact with one another. Michael noticed Fiona's shoulders were lightly freckled, and it made him want to press his lips to them. He felt pressured to say something to diffuse the awkward silence.

"So, where are you from?"

"Where are _you_ from, Michael?"

"Kilkenny," he lied.

"Thank you again for dinner the other night. It was nice to have a home cooked meal."

Fiona was not used to being appreciated for her cooking.

"You're welcome."

"Do you enjoy cooking?"

"I enjoy mixing chemicals over heat, if you consider that cooking."

"What do you do in your spare time, besides making homemade explosives and watching documentaries about trench warfare?"

"Too many questions, McBride."

"Sorry. I just thought there must be more to you than violence and armed conflict."

"You've already been told everything you need to know about me."

She wondered if he was checking up on her. Maybe, he was suspicious about her cover ID. In actuality Michael wasn't under the impression that she was anything other than what she said she was, but he wished for it.

"So, do you want a beer or something? She offered"

Michael had consumed more beer than he would like since arriving in Ireland, and she could see the aversion in his face.

"Red wine?"

"Yes, thank you."

*******

Fiona gripped the bottle in her arm the way she would grip a man in a chokehold. She wrenched at the cork with the opener, but it remained firmly implanted in the neck of the bottle. Her breathing had grown deep and rapid from the lengthy endeavor. Her face was cringed in frustration.

Michael watched Fiona's struggle in amusement from his seat on the sofa, leaning back with his legs casually crossed.

"You can't strong-arm it," Michael called out gently. "There's a technique to it."

"I'm well aware of the technique, but this bottle opener is a piece of junk," she answered with contempt.

"Are you sure you don't want some help?"

"No, I would not like some help." She blew a wisp of hair out of her face, and continued to attempt to force the release of the cork.

Though he enjoyed watching her struggle, Michael got up to help.

Fiona saw him drawing near, and was determined to complete the task without his assistance. With one last jerk of her arm the cork was free, but the momentum of her fist did not stop until it was met with the side of Michael's face. He took a step back in shock and said nothing, but the surprise in his eyes and the wince on his face revealed his pain.

"Is violence your answer to everything?" he cried with a contorted expression on his face. He felt his Irish accent slip a little bit, and hoped she didn't notice.

"If it had been on purpose, you would be choking on blood right now," she snapped back.

"I believe that."

*******

Michael leaned against the counter, holding a cloth full of ice against his left eye. It would be black tomorrow. His cheek had become red and warm to the touch, and the swelling had already set in.

"I really am sorry."

"It's okay, I've had worse."

The melting ice dripped down the side of his face, but he didn't bother to wipe it away. Fiona watched a trail of water meander along the edge of his jaw and down his neck, soaking the collar of his shirt. She absent-mindedly took a stray towel from the counter and lifted it to his moistened face. She did not look him in the eye, but instead focused on collecting the beads of water from his skin. Michael was surprised at the tenderness of her touch. He stood still and silent, afraid to discourage her. She gently guided the towel lower, slowly under his chin and down his neck. She felt compelled to descend further, but fought the impulse. When she reached his dampened collar she stopped and placed the towel back on the counter.

Donovan arrived home to the sight of Michael sitting on the couch with a mass of ice held to his face.

"Fiona?" he mildly admonished her. "What did you do?"

"What makes you think I had anything to do with it?"

"It's not her fault," Michael responded coolly. "It was a freak accident involving a bottle opener."

"If you lose sight out of that eye for a couple of days you won't have any depth perception," Donovan said with concern.

"I can function without depth perception. It will be fine."

"You only need one eye to look through a sniper scope." Fi added. She looked on with indifference, then changed the subject. "Well, you men have a lot to discuss tonight. Don't let me interfere. I'll just be in here watching my program."

Donovan and Michael sat at the dining room table going over schematics for the rest of the night. And for the rest of the night, Michael could not figure out why the woman watching television across the room, enraptured by a documentary on war, distracted him so completely.


	5. Chapter 5

Michael and Fiona sat at the dining room table preparing for their first act of mayhem together. She sat across from him cleaning her rifle, while he sipped a glass of iced tea, and he caught himself indulgently staring once again. He could not shake the impression that Fiona reminded him of someone. Someone violent. Someone sensual. The sun poured through the window, casting a ray of light across her body. She wore a short black dress that clung to her thighs, and he imagined himself pushing it up to reveal a glimpse of black lace or silk hugging her hips. He fantasized of her responding by placing her own hands on his and guiding them beneath the cloth of her dress to feel the smooth skin of her inner thighs. He decided to distract himself with small-talk.

"Since when do you need a rifle to plant bombs?"

"Just in case," replied Fiona, as she eyed the gun seductively and polished the handle.

"Maybe you should bring something you can actually conceal."

"I'll conceal it in the trunk of my car. Don't tell me how to do my job."

"Sorry."

She wrapped a cloth around the barrel of the gun, and began to slowly slide her hand along its length. Michael suspected for a moment that this display might be for his benefit, but he quickly dismissed the thought as wishful thinking. Certainly, a gun cleaning demonstration would be a natural form of flirtation for Fiona Glennane, but he did not want to get his hopes up that she might think of him in that way. She was Donovan's girlfriend, and she was clearly loyal to him.

'What are you thinking?' he berated himself. 'This woman is a murderer.'

"Are you ready to go?" Fiona asked, pulling him out of his conflicted musings.

"Let's go take a life," he replied.

*******

Sirens blared behind Michael with increasing intensity as additional police cars joined the pursuit. He sharply turned the wheel, bracing his body against the door with his left arm, as the car tore around the corner. He looked in the rear view mirror and counted five sets of flashing red and blue lights. The veins in his forearms bulged as he tightened his grip on the wheel. Everything had been going so well until twenty minutes ago.

Michael had knelt beside Fiona and held the bomb steady as she worked to secure it beneath the brown leather chair in the office of the old parliament building. The unlucky owner of the chair-of-death was Ian Connolly, a political party leader who had worked to bring about compromise between the IRA and British government, and they were about to send a message that the IRA did not compromise. They worked well together with so much combustible energy between them. Michael instinctively knew which tools to hand her as she wired the trembler switch to the bomb, and Fiona appreciated the quiet confidence he must have possessed to let a woman take control. She hoped he wouldn't double-check her work, because if he did, he would discover that she had used a faulty detonator in order to avert successfully murdering their target.

As Fiona finished, Michael made a mental note that he would have to put in a call to warn Irish officials about the pending explosion before anyone actually got hurt. He held out his hand to help Fiona to her feet. His hand grazed her backside as they walked toward the door, and she wondered if it was on purpose. As the two casually exited the office, the head of security rounded the corner. They ran in opposite directions, and Michael ensured that the guard followed him instead of Fiona.

When Michael sprinted out the rear of the building shortly thereafter, with several guards not far behind, an expanse of green grass offered only one hiding place: a murky pond. He darted across the lawn and plunged into the cold water, silently thanking his "special school" training, which had conditioned him to hold his breath for four minutes at a time.

He hovered several feet below the surface of the muddy pond. The isolation of the dark water brought a sense of peace, distancing him from the chaos that took place up above. The sounds of men yelling could be heard only faintly. He felt the pressure in his chest build as the need for oxygen became more urgent. When the sounds of the guards' voices faded, he slowly rose to the surface, and gasped for air. He emerged from the stagnant water cautiously, surveying his surroundings for any remaining members of the search party. Fiona would be gone by now, so he ran around to the front to find a vulnerable looking car to steal. The man in navy blue spotted him just as he started the ignition.

*******

Michael had been leading the police through the streets of Belfast for several minutes, now. He focused coolly ahead of him, wondering why Fiona had told him to drive to this particular street when he had called to explain his dilemma.

Without warning a parked car exploded just as Michael drove past it. The flames hurled the car into the center of the road, and one of the police cars hit it head on. Michael watched through the mirror in shock as the passing of his car caused a succession of explosions to strike each of the police cars. Fiona looked on at her work from a nearby park bench and thought proudly that she would have to keep this strategy in mind for the future.

The sun was beginning to set when they met in the parking lot of an old church, soon after Michael had abandoned his stolen vehicle. Fiona watched as he approached her car on foot, taking confident strides through the dusk. He was soaking wet, and his face was smeared with mud. The weight of the water made his jeans hang down farther than usual. His fitted shirt had become slightly see-through, and it clung to his chest and midsection. She noticed that his abs showed through the shirt as they angled down from the sides of his waist to his groin. He lifted his arms above his head to stretch, and she could see the muscles in his chest contract. He hesitated to get into her car, not wanting to dirty it.

"Just get in, Michael. We can worry about the mud later."

He carefully climbed into the car, and she drove off.

*******

"Geez, Michael, you look like the swamp man," said Donovan.

Michael and Fiona had just returned from their expedition, and Donovan was eagerly waiting to hear their account of what had happened. He got up from his recliner, and went to greet them at the door. He enveloped Fiona in his arms, and smothered her lips with his. Michael stood by with his arms crossed and an unaffected expression on his face; an expression that did not reveal the twinge of envy he felt. He hoped the blank expression on his face would not betray his jealousy. When Donovan finally tore his lips away from Fiona, he announced "You guys made the news with your pyrotechnics."

Fiona wrapped her arms around his waist in an artificial expression of love and asked demurely "How do you know that was us?"

"A domino effect of exploding cars? It had Fiona written all over it."

"It wasn't part of our plan, but we had to improvise a bit," Michael replied. "Fiona really bailed me out."

Michael looked at her and gave her a mild smile of gratitude and admiration. Fiona had never seen him smile before. Michael McBride was almost stoic in nature, so it caught her off guard, and she felt her knees go a little bit weak. He looked directly into her eyes, and she held his gaze for a moment before she felt the need to turn away. It was the only way she could maintain her composure.

"Nice job on by-passing security to get in, McBride," complimented Donovan. "None of us could have done that. You can tell me all about it over a Guinness."

Michael really just wanted to go home to get cleaned up, but he recognized the opportunity to press Donovan for more details about the upcoming operation, so he nodded in acceptance of the offer.

"We can't have you sitting on the furniture all covered in mud, though," Said Donovan. "Go have a shower, first. There are some towels and wash cloths in the cabinet."

This sounded more like an order than a suggestion to Michael, but he thought he had better pick his battles.

"Thanks, I could use a shower."

As Donovan took Fiona into his arms again, Michael walked back to the bathroom and shut the door.

"Fiona, go bring Michael a change of clothes."

It took a great deal of restraint for Fiona to not assault him when he made demands of her like this. Under normal circumstances she dealt with conceited chauvinists by crippling their manhood with a knee to the groin. Instead, she gave Donovan a flat smile, and went off to the bedroom to select a fresh set of clothes.

With a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt in hand, Fiona lightly knocked on the bathroom door. She could hear the water running already. She purposely knocked too quietly for him to hear. When there was no answer, she opened the door.

"Michael, I'm just going to set these clothes in here for you." She cautiously stepped into the bathroom.

At hearing her voice, Michael felt a jolt go through his body, and his heartbeat quickened.

"Thank you," he responded with a low voice that echoed through the sound of the pounding water. It did not escape him that he was completely in the nude, while having a conversation with this captivating woman. It made him feel vulnerable, but he liked it. He wished she would slide her dress off, and step into the shower with him. He would place his hands on her lower back, slide them downward, and firmly draw her body to his. She would feel him growing hard, and respond by burying her face in his neck. Michael shook his head free of the fantasy. This was not the type of woman he should be lusting after.

Fiona knew that if she allowed herself to look up, she would be able to see his blurred form through the translucent glass of the shower door. She willed herself not to look, but as the recollection of his wet shirt clinging to his chest invaded her consciousness, her gaze was gradually drawn upward. For the first time she could see the bare flesh of not just his forearms and neck, but also of his shoulders, torso and thighs. Michael aimlessly ran his hands over his chest and abdomen, unaware that he had an audience. Fiona inadvertently took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. She couldn't understand how this man, whose brutality matched that of Donovan's, was somehow immune to her contempt. She turned to leave the room, but as she stepped out, she looked back to steal one more glance at his unclothed body.


	6. Chapter 6

After the third bombing excursion, Fiona decided it was time to find out who Michael really was. It was possible, she reasoned, that Michael McBride was not the ally he claimed to be. She trusted him in the field- he was adept and unfailing- but away from the job she had no idea who this man was. After Michael left the next evening, Fiona hastily slipped out the door behind him. Outside, an ominous mass of clouds drifted in front of a half moon, and Fiona heard thunder rolling in the distance. She spotted him three blocks away, the distance between them growing longer with every step he took.

Michael knew how to detect someone following him, but Fiona knew how to prevent detection. She followed from the other side of the street and buried herself amongst a group of bohemian-looking teens. After several blocks he turned, and Fiona found a new group of people in which to immerse herself.

Even though she justified the pursuit to herself as an act of caution, a part of her knew that she just wanted to know this man better. She wanted to know what he called home and how he spent his days and evenings. She wanted to know if he had someone to come home to each night.

Michael turned and entered an old brick apartment building. Fiona waited for the door to shut behind him, and then hurried to the entrance. She quietly opened the door, and listened for the sounds of his footsteps. They climbed two flights of stairs. The sound of a key turning in a lock followed, a door creaked opened and closed, and then there was silence.

She entered the building and noiselessly made her way up the stairs. The lighting was insufficient, and made it difficult for her to see each step. On reaching the third floor, she quietly inched down the hallway, listening for sounds of movement in any of the apartments. She heard him cough through the door of a unit halfway down the hall, and then realized there was nothing more for her to do here; it was time to leave. She took a step back, tripped, and slammed loudly against the wall.

The door swung open, and Michael appeared amidst a backdrop of darkness, conspicuously hiding a gun behind his back.

"Fiona?"

His face was a mixture of surprise and confusion.

Fiona had been caught in the act of burglary several times when she was still a new recruit with the IRA. Those subjects did not know who she was, so she had always evaded capture simply by running. That was not an option this time; McBride had already seen her face.

She stood calmly before Michael, knowing there was no point in throwing a punch or running.

"I'm not as quick to trust as Donovan," she conceded. "So, I followed you."

Michael peered out into the hallway, checking both ways for additional assailants.

"Are you alone?" he asked roughly.

"Yes."

"Does Donovan know about this?"

"No."

"And are you sufficiently satisfied that I am not a threat to you?"

A loud clap of thunder answered before Fiona could.

"Yes."

"Then you should probably come in and wait out the rain."

It was against his better judgment, but sound reasoning was not ruling his decisions. Michael held the door open, and Fiona passed by his stiffened frame. He noticed the scent of her shampoo as she walked past him.

A burning candle flickered through a red tinted lantern on a coffee table in the center of the room and illuminated the dwelling in a warm, scarlet glow. A wood burning stove in the corner offered additional light, as well as a smell of charred oak.

"The wiring in this building is old, so I sometimes have to provide my own lighting." Michael explained in a low, barely audible voice. "It's not much, but it's enough to read by."

The room was small, but not cramped. It was simple, with exposed brick walls and dark wood floors. A carelessly made bed occupied the back wall, with a disheveled blanket lying on top of it. A worn couch and two chairs sat around the coffee table. Rain forcefully spattered against the window and caught the light from the stove as it trailed down the dark panes of glass.

He gestured for her to sit.

"Can I offer you something to drink?"

"Do you have any red wine?" she teased.

He put his hand to his still-swollen eye and smiled hesitantly.

"That was actually impressive. It's not usually so easy to catch me off guard."

Michael filled their glasses with the deep, dark liquid, and carefully carried them through the ill-lighted room. He handed a glass to Fiona, and took a seat next to her on the couch. He sat more closely than necessary, so their arms brushed against one another, but neither attempted to move away. They sat in silence savoring the pungency of the wine. It was sweet and a little bit spicy. The warmth of the alcohol flowed through their veins. Neither one looked at the other, for fear that a simple glance would become another stare that could not be broken.

Fiona broke the silence.

"Dublin."

She took a sip of her wine.

"What?"

"You asked me before where I'm from."

"Oh."

Their words were almost whispered, but their voices resonated in each other's minds as if they were calling out to one another.

"And I only like to cook when it's for someone I care about."

"You cook for Donovan every night." He felt a lump form in this throat and tried in vain to force it down.

"I do," she admitted, wishing she could tell him that she despised Donovan. She felt the words clawing at her and knew that if she stayed any longer she would be compelled to tell Michael everything, despite the risk that he might kill her for it. She set her glass on the table.

"Donovan will wonder where I am. I should go."

Fiona rushed out the door before Michael could respond. He remained on the sofa, lost in the vivid memory of her voice, her scent, and the way it felt when her arm brushed against his. He set down his half-finished glass and picked hers up. He held it in his hand for a moment, then brought it to his mouth. He hesitated, letting the glass linger at his lips, then tilted his head back and drank the remainder of her wine.


	7. Chapter 7

Fiona and Michael rushed down Market Street away from the screams, away from the man with a bullet embedded in his hand. Fiona had not felt the need to give the stranger a warning when she felt the ruffling of her shirt and his hand brushing against her backside. The look of shock and anguish on his face as he peered through the gaping hole in his hand put a fiery smile on Fiona's face. Michael had merely rolled his eyes and grabbed her arm to hurry her away from the escalating scene. They slowed their pace to a casual stroll when they neared the apartment. He looked at her contemplatively, thinking again that she reminded him of someone.

"What, McBride?"

"What? I didn't say anything."

"You think I'm trigger happy."

"No, I don't. I didn't say anything."

She glared at him, his innocent denial not convincing her.

"Fiona, I don't think you're trigger happy."

Her eyes bore into him, and the silence was more unbearable to him than if she had responded with a verbal assault.

"Okay you're just a little bit eager to shoot people."

"I'm strategic. I always think before I pull a trigger."

"And what was your strategy back there?"

"Permanent disability. A perpetual reminder of the hazards of sexual harassment."

Michael didn't respond. He knew it was a conversation he could not win. He also knew that if he had noticed the skulking man with roaming hands before Fiona reacted, he would have done far worse. He looked at her with a softened expression of care that failed to live up to the tough image he was trying so hard to convey.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"I'm fine."

The air had turned chilly in the last few hours of the afternoon, a cold front that brought with it the first sign that summer was evolving into autumn. The fog from their breath hovered before them, and Fiona stifled a chill. Michael wanted to warm her with his arms, but instead he removed his jacket, and placed it around her shoulders.

"You can get it back to me tomorrow," he murmured into her ear. He turned to leave, knowing that a moment longer in her company would be more than his willpower could withstand. He walked home quickly, hoping that with each step he took away from her his strength and good sense would somehow recover. Instead, as the distance between them built, he felt it weigh him down like a heavy blanket.

Fiona watched Michael disappear into the distance. She slipped her arms through the oversized sleeves of Michael's coat, and wrapped the cloth tightly around her body. His scent, a faint mixture of soap and cologne, enveloped her. She breathed him in deeply, wanting his body to engulf her instead of an article of his clothing and wishing it was not just a remnant of his presence that she breathed in.

*******

It was dark by the time Michael arrived home. He flipped the switch as he walked through the door to his apartment, but he had grown accustomed to its unreliability and did not react when the lights failed to turn on. He rubbed the chill from his arms, and shuffled through the dark toward the wood burning stove. His eyes not yet adjusted to the dark, he caught his knee on the coffee table along the way. The glass Fiona drank from the night before still lay there, unwashed since she had left. The loneliness that settled in when she walked out the door had hit him hard and unexpectedly, and he knew it would be worse if he erased the traces of her visit. He fixated on the silhouette of the glass out of the corner of his eye, and the loneliness washed over him once again.

The operation today had not lasted long enough to satisfy his desire for time with her. He knew little more about her than her homicidal tendencies, and it tortured him that he could be attracted to such a person. He was drawn to her strong will, passionate soul, and unconventional approach to solving disagreements. He was enamored by her dark eyes and exquisite body. He took solace in the knowledge that he had created an excuse to see her tomorrow to retrieve his coat.

Michael threw a crumpled newspaper into the stove for kindling. He lit a match and a red glow slowly devoured the paper. He grabbed another section of the news and began to crumple it before he realized it was the paper that highlighted his first operation with Fiona. The front page photo of three charred vehicles reminded him of her, and he could not bring himself to destroy it. When you work in intelligence, you learn not to leave behind clues of your identity, daily activities, or future plans, but in a rare act of human weakness Michael disregarded this fundamental rule. He laid the article flat on the floor and smoothed it with his hand. He retrieved another log and placed it in the stove. The fire popped as the log ignited, and a shower of smoldering embers rained down on his forearm. He drew his arm back quickly, but not soon enough to avoid singeing several hairs. He brushed away the crumbling remnants of follicles, and waved the sulfurous stench from the air.

Michael walked over to the bed, removed his shirt and shoes, and sprawled out on the old, lumpy mattress. He was too tired to remove his jeans. He extended his arms above his head, lazily resting them on the pillow, and closed his eyes to visualize the scheme for their next job. It would be their last one together before the big operation. He was relieved that this mission would soon be over. His struggle to resist a woman who did not care for him, and who he should not be with anyway, would soon be a small part of his past.


	8. Chapter 8

"Try that again, and it will be your trigger finger next time."

The voice, impassioned and dripping with adrenaline, came from behind the door of Donovan's apartment. Michael recognized the voice as Fiona's and knocked more loudly than usual out of concern.

"Woman, you need to know your place," Donovan sneered in an attempt to salvage his dignity.

The door flew open and Donovan stormed past Michael, massaging out the pain from his dislocated thumb as he turned to leave Fiona with his parting words.

"Dinner had better be on the table when I get back from my mum's."

Donovan looked up then to acknowledge Michael.

"McBride, we weren't expecting you." He was visibly upset, and not pleased to have an unannounced visitor.

"I'm just here for my coat. I forgot it here the other day."

"Go on in. Fiona probably knows where it is. But be warned, she's a little bit feisty today."

Donovan stomped away and Michael stepped through the door to find Fiona leaning against the wall just outside the kitchen. She was shaking and angry, but Michael could also tell from the wounded expression in her eyes that she had been hurt. She held the side of her face, which had reddened from the force of Donovan's hand.

"Are you alright?" he asked as he closed the door behind him. He tried not to appear too genuinely concerned, but the intensity in his voice and the distress in his eyes told a different story. He approached her slowly, and carefully extended his hand to the side of her face. He brushed it faintly, not wanting to cause more pain. Instead of drawing back in discomfort, Fiona tilted her head toward his hand, wanting to feel his calloused fingers pressed more firmly against her skin. Michael yearned to use his mouth to sooth the building heat in her cheek, and it took a great deal of will power to fight the urge. He felt the rage inside building, threatening to bubble over at the thought of someone hitting her. He found it hard to believe that Fiona would put up with such abuse. She was too tough and strong-willed to let a man treat her this way. Fiona read his questioning stare.

"I'm fine. If the day ever comes that he succeeds in beating me, I won't have to leave him. There will be nothing left of him to leave."

*******

"Do you have any spices, Fiona?"

"In the cabinet, to the right of the stove."

Michael opened the cabinet and pulled the spice jars out one by one.

"Paprika, chipotle powder, chili powder, cayenne pepper..." Michael scratched his head, contemplating the culinary possibilities. "This is a good start. Do you have anything that does not originate from a pepper?" he asked carefully.

"Does salt count?"

He gave her a silent look of defiance, and she challenged him with a teasing smile.

"This will be fine," he relented. "I can work with this. I'm like MacGyver in the kitchen."

Steam rose from the pan in front of him as he worked the spices into the meat with a wooden spoon. The tendrils of vapor curled around his neck and behind his ears, consuming him in a potent haze that made his eyes water. He dabbed them with a cloth, but Fiona could still see the tears welling. They resulted in an endearing glaze that made his blue eyes glisten, and Fiona thought they had never seemed so deeply blue.

Donovan returned home just as he was spooning the aromatic creation onto plates.

"Darling, we have a guest for dinner. Michael was kind enough to show me one of his signature recipes."

"McBride, I'm shocked that you can cook. You don't seem the type."

"A man has to be self sufficient," Michael replied in a low, controlled voice, struggling not to allow his anger at Donovan show through. He casually picked up the shaker of cayenne.

"Fiona. Beer," Donovan commanded.

"Oh yeah, we'll need that," Michael said, as he nonchalantly flipped his wrist, dispensing a generous mound of the unforgiving spice onto Donovan's plate. Fiona looked over her shoulder, and noticed as he placed a jar back on the counter and zealously blended a pile of bright red powder into one of the dishes. Her mouth curved into a smile as she retrieved the bottles of beer. Michael relished in the task of incorporating the tiny granules into Donovan's meal, and with a final turn of the spatula, announced "Dinner is served."

*******

Donovan continued to chew slowly, too proud to admit that he was in pain. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead. He swallowed hard and took another swig from his bottle, tilting his head back in desperation for the remaining drops of beer that slowly trickled down. Tongue burning and throat becoming raw, he got up for a third round. Fiona gave Michael a knowing look and shook her head in feigned disapproval. The expression of innocent confusion he gave her turned to a slight smile, and she smiled back in appreciation of his act of revenge.

Donovan cleared his throat and called out hoarsely from the kitchen, "Not bad, McBride."

"The combination of spices is very satisfying, don't you think, Donovan?" Fiona responded.

He hesitated to affirm Fiona's compliment, and instead announced "I'm not feeling too well, tonight. I'm going to turn in early."

*******

Fiona lay in bed awake and engrossed with the shadows on the ceiling. Donovan lay beside her, a double dose of sleeping pills having taken its effect so he could sleep through the hole that slowly burned through his stomach. His face still seemed to be twisted in pain. Michael had left the apartment hours ago, but thoughts of him had yet to leave Fiona. She thanked him silently, both for exacting revenge earlier that evening and for saving her from a night of Donovan grunting on top of her.

She wondered if he was asleep yet in his own bed, and if so, what he looked like when he slept. She imagined herself lying next to him, his body splayed out carelessly across the bed, his bare chest rising and falling with each breath, his legs twisted in the sheets. His stern countenance was probably relaxed when he slept, a look of peace cast over his face that could deceive anyone into believing that he was a good man. If she wrestled the sheets away from him he might wake up and pull her body close to his, tucking the edges of the cotton underneath her to keep her warm. He might rest his body over hers, look down into her eyes, and then caress her cheek with the back of his hand the way he had when he saw that Donovan had hit her.

She broke free from the fantasy and chided herself for harboring these thoughts. Michael and Donovan were the same, she thought. Both steadfast in their beliefs and unwilling to compromise. Both murderers with no boundaries. Yet, Donovan used the back of his hand to strike her and Michael used his to gently caress her. She wondered how someone so callous could have such sympathy and tenderness within him. She wondered why she longed for Michael to be lying beside her and why she craved the gentle touch of his murderous hands.


	9. Chapter 9

It was the kind of day to spend indoors. The wind shook the trees, their branches swaying violently and the vibrations coursing to their bases. A shower of red, purple, and brown leaves tumbled to their deaths at Michael and Fiona's feet, and the sweet smell of decay from leaves that had fallen days before rode the breeze around them. Fiona leaned against a primeval red maple, its limbs mangled over time, but its leaves just as vibrant and crisp as the first bloom it offered hundreds of years ago. Overhead, the dark gray sky threatened to purge itself of the rain it had hoarded for weeks now. On a day like this, it was sure to be a cold rain. They surveyed the remote parking lot before them and Fiona silently willed Michael to finish his task.

"There's one, over there," he said in the quiet, low tone that always made Fiona wonder who he really was. "Six rows down, on the opposite end. I'll be back in a minute."

Fiona watched as he took off in a casual run and disappeared between the cars. She noted a twinge of disappointment when the sight of his back end, its muscles tightening with each step, was no longer within range. She didn't bother to monitor his surroundings for potential complications- Michael was the most adept car thief she had ever worked with. Before she had a chance to contemplate Michael's virtues with any greater detail, he pulled up with the last of the vehicles. He maneuvered the car, an offensive shade of tan, into a narrow space between two black cars. The parking lot now harbored a dozen black and tan cars lined up to resemble a formation of black and tan uniformed soldiers- like the ones who had once been recruited by the British to terrorize the Irish into submission. Now the positions of the adversaries were reversing.

As Michael exited the car, Fiona continued on with the dirty work beneath the undercarriage. She lay beneath the car with her tools carelessly spread out beside her. Her subconscious took over in the routine wiring of a simple bomb, and her conscious thoughts wandered to how she would spend the rest of her day. She planned to go home tonight to curl up in front of the fireplace with a bowl of soup and a book. She wondered if Michael's tough facade was impermeable to the benefits of such a soothing diversion. She wondered if it would ever be possible to curl up in front of a fireplace with him, wrapped in his solid arms, with no need for a bowl of soup or book to occupy their time or roaming hands. She had seen that gentle side of him before, and she knew he had it in him, lurking beneath the surface.

'This has to stop,' Fiona thought. 'You know the difference between love and lust.'

Michael leaned against the car now, waiting for Fiona to finish. Her slender legs poked out from underneath the ancient looking Volvo. The wind pushed her dress upward, revealing her knees, which were embedded with gravel and adorned with tiny red scratches. Michael felt a pang of guilt for accepting the less demanding role of car thief and valet, but Fiona had insisted on wiring the C4 herself. The wind continued to tease him, dragging her dress further up, compelling him to look at what he knew he shouldn't. The virile man in him urged him to look on, but the gentleman in him, the part of him that respected Fiona and knew she could bend any of his appendages into an anatomically questionable position, fought the compulsion to eye her.

He turned his head to stare at nothing in particular in front of him, but even with Fiona removed from his line of sight, she was what he saw. He imagined Fiona back in his apartment later that evening, but this time her motive for coming to him would not be to spy. The cold air would fill the room with a bracing chill. Fiona, in a pair of tight jeans and button-down plaid shirt, would take his hand to lead him to the haven of his bed. They would seek refuge under the blankets, and she would seek further refuge by burying her face in his chest. He would wrap his-

"Damn!" came the cry of frustration from below.

"Do you need any help down there?" he offered.

"No, I'm nearly finished. But, I'm going to need some new wire cutters after today."

"How about an M9 Bayonet?"

Fiona glided out from beneath the car and pulled herself to a stand. She smiled at the reference, touched that he remembered the mention of one of her new favorite weapons. She brushed the gravel from her knees, leaving behind only the scratches.

"You're not really dressed for a job like this. You might have come out unscathed if you had worn something more sensible," Michael offered.

"I'm an IRA bomb specialist. 'Sensible' is not a term often applied to my kind."

She gathered her tools, and they casually walked toward a distant clearing with benches that faced the impending fireworks display. Michael knew he would have to be sure the bombs were detonated when no innocent people were in the vicinity. Fiona knew the bombs weren't going to go off at all, and suspicion would soon fall on her.

*******

"Don't you dare question my ability to wire a detonator, Michael! I designed those bombs to easily obliterate up to two tons of steel!"

They sat alone on the park bench, looking on at the parking lot full of in-tact cars. It was hard for Michael to pretend like he was upset that their attempt at mass destruction and casualty was a failure. "Really, well those vehicles look to be in remarkable working order," he responded sarcastically. "Maybe I should go have a look at one of your supposed explosives."

"You can mock my cooking. You can question my attire. But do not ever doubt my aptitude for terrorism, Michael."

A patrol car pulled into the lot then, and a bewildered officer stepped out to take a closer look at the license plate on one of the stolen cars. In her fit of rage, Fiona did not notice.

"Fiona-"

"I have been playing with fire since I realized alcohol was flammable at the age of eight."

"Fiona-"

"I have been blowing things up since my oldest brother taught me how to construct a pipe bomb at age 13."

Frustrated at her lack of restraint, Michael cut in with measured intensity. "You know, I find it very ironic that your favorite explosive is C4, because it has such a reputation for being STABLE! You need a combination of high heat _and_ a pressure wave to set it off, whereas the slightest of irritants gets you fired up!"

Fiona was silenced by this cutting remark, just long enough to realize that Michael's attention was trained heavily on activity in the parking lot.

The police officer moved on from one car to the next, taking note of each license plate. Michael and Fiona watched, their argument temporarily stunted into silence, as the officer pulled out a radio. They knew it would be only minutes before backup and then a bomb squad had arrived. Michael stood up and held his hand out on impulse to assist Fiona to her feet, and the two quietly embarked on their long walk home. As if to tell them they would not get away so easily, the sky opened up then, unleashing the deluge it had been promising all day. It was a cold rain.


	10. Chapter 10

The sound of Donovan's shoulder blades pounded loudly against the cement wall in the abandoned bread factory, and the iron grip around his neck slowly stole his oxygen. He clawed at the hand, struggling in vain to pry each finger away. After thirty years of housing baked goods, the building they stood in still retained the scent of fresh baked bread, and Donovan fought to inhale the yeast-infused air. Michael tightened his grip methodically.

"It would be best not to struggle," Michael whispered menacingly into his ear. "If you move, I may fracture your hyoid. That's the little bone in your airway that keeps it from collapsing on itself. If I break it, you will suffocate."

Donovan relaxed his effort, but did not remove his fingers from around Michael's hand.

"Now, would you like to explain to me why you misrepresented this little organization of yours? The name Michael McBride will never be taken seriously again if people find out I've become involved with the group whose last three bombings failed to detonate."

Fiona heard the voices when she entered through the doors in the back. She watched through the darkness of the derelict building, standing several feet behind the men. She was more captivated by Michael's intense application of force and demanding tone than Donovan's precarious situation. Michael stood with his back to her, his body leaning slightly forward with all of his weight resting against the hand that pinned Donovan to the wall. The sleeves of his button-down shirt were rolled up to just below his elbows. His jeans hung loosely over his thighs, and Fiona noticed, not for the first time, that he filled out the rear of his jeans quite well. This part of his body had become a favorite of Fiona's, a shameless object of fascination. It represented so much of his strength- his ability to run quickly and quietly when in danger, his ability to scale buildings, and his ability to fight in close combat.

He made the act of pinning Donovan look simple, despite the trembling of his fingers and the visibly mobilized muscles in his forearm. She knew that if he ever tried to overpower her he would succeed… and she would enjoy it. She was content to continue on as a mere observer, but she knew she had to move this contentious situation along.

"You two need to develop better communication skills."

She spoke with ease, as if the wrath of two of the country's most deadly assassins was of little consequence to her. Her voice, soft yet confident, was disarming and Michael instinctively loosened his grip. He was disappointed that she had seen this vicious side of him. She was disappointed that she liked it.

"McBride," Donovan choked. He sucked in the air as his throat opened up, letting it fill his aching lungs back to their full capacity. "I'm just as suspicious as you are. Clearly, something isn't right, but this does not speak to my organization's credibility."

"Then who is to blame?"

Donovan's sight trailed over Michael's shoulder, and Michael turned his head slightly to look behind. Fiona found herself the object of the two men's gaze.


	11. Chapter 11

"Faulty. Every one of them," Michael said angrily. The faulty detonators lay strewn across the concrete floor of the factory, and the crate from which they had fallen sat where it had landed on its side when Michael pushed it off the table in a convincing eruption of rage. "Who is responsible for this purchase?"

"Noel made that deal," said Fiona innocently as she casually tapped her fingers on the table. "But quality control is not one of his strengths."

"I guess we'll have to have a talk with Noel, tonight," Donovan seethed through gritted teeth.

Fiona breathed an internal sigh of relief. She had just finished tampering with the detonators before Michael and Donovan arrived. It was a temporary solution, but it only needed to get her through to tomorrow night.

"We go on as planned for Friday," Donovan declared over his shoulder as he sauntered out of the warehouse in a deliberate manner.

Left alone in the desolation of the old building were Michael and Fiona. He had wanted her to be the reason why the bombs did not go off. It would have granted him leave to feel for her. But nothing had changed. She was still destructive and terror-seeking, and he still wanted her.

"So," said Fiona, "Our last meeting isn't for hours. What do you have planned for the day?"

'Would you like to come back home with me to temper the cold of the drafty windows and the loneliness of a poorly-lit old apartment?' he thought.

"Well, I'm sure you and Donovan have plans for the afternoon, so I'll let you be on your way," he said softly.

"Donovan has plans. I don't." Fiona knew the suggestion was obvious, and she waited in tense silence for the rejection she believed was sure to come. The pattering of the rain on the roof suddenly seemed louder to her, overcoming her senses.

Michael couldn't be sure, but it sounded as though Fiona were suggesting they find a way to occupy their day together. The quickening of his heartbeat and the deepening of his breath, his body's natural response to danger, were enough to tell him this would not be a wise decision. But the look of hope in her eyes and the way he throbbed for her in another equally responsive part of his body, influenced his decision.

In a barely audible voice he asked, "Would you like to go for a walk?"

Fiona's answer was a slight nod of the head. He held out his arm for her, and as she took it, she thought to herself, 'It's only a walk.'

He guided her outside, where the rain had receded into a fine mist, and as their bodies found a comfortable rhythm side-by-side, Michael thought to himself, 'It's only a walk.'

The silence between them felt comfortable as they waded through the noisy streets of Belfast. Michael's arm felt firm and sturdy beneath Fiona's hand, his skin soft and warm. Fiona imagined her hand gradually drifting down the length of his forearm, where it would meet his, and perhaps he would respond by entangling his fingers with hers. It would be the simplest of connections for their two bodies to make, but nothing about it would be innocent or meaningless… and it would not be enough.

Michael guided Fiona around a corner, down a block lined with fish n' chip shops and pubs, then around another corner. It soon became clear that he had a destination in mind.

"Michael, where are we going?"

"You'll see," he said quietly, without turning his head to look at her. Fiona caught a playful smile momentarily appear across his lips. He seemed even more beautiful on the rare occasions that he allowed a slight smile to tease the corners of his mouth.

They crossed the street then, and continued on their way. Up ahead, the trappings of a small café began to materialize. The building of weathered wood siding and shutters dangling at odd angles was surrounded by massive stone slabs that served as tables and chairs. Turn of the century street lamps lined the perimeter to complete the idyllic scene. As they approached the old building, the smell of vanilla and cinnamon thickened the air, and Fiona basked in the thought of lingering over a cup of coffee with Michael, immersed in the orange lights of the lanterns and the scent of cappuccino and pastries. But, when they finally reached the café, Michael did not stop or even slow. The storefronts receded into their background as they continued. Eventually, an out of place wilderness made itself known. It was an iron-gated enclosure at the end of the road, which had become overgrown with trees and shrubbery. Now, only hints of rusted metal peeked out of the overgrowth to give the occasional indication that a man-made structure laid within.

"Michael, this church has been abandoned for years. It's old and deteriorated. Why, of all places…."

Michael turned to look her in the eye for the first time since they began their walk. "Because, this city has become so hardened by religious and political opposition, but there's a small corner of peace and tranquility here that has gone untouched by hatred…. And I wanted you to see it."

Michael reached through the brambles and pushed them aside to reveal an opening for them to pass through. Fiona stepped through cautiously, keeping her head down to make sure she didn't trip over anything, and Michael followed. He followed a little too closely, enough for her to feel his front side graze her for a fleeting moment. Michael drew back quickly, hoping she did not notice the obvious. Fiona slowed her pace, wanting to feel the obvious against her once more.

When Fiona ventured further and finally looked up, she saw that she stood within the remnants of a chapel , its aged walls barely standing on either side of the enclosure, a victim of only time and the elements of nature. It was a poor man's church-humble with no etchings or carvings. It was built by laborers, long before her time, solely to worship the God they believed would deliver them from oppression. What the bones of the building lacked in embellishment, the stained glass windows made up for. Corroded metal weaved solid lines through the jewel-toned panes. Fragments of scarlet glass harvested light from the autumn sky and scattered it across the crumbled walls of the chapel.

Fiona understood why Michael might be drawn to this place. Outwardly, it was harsh, cold and uninviting. It told you to stay away or approach at your own risk. But the closer you got, the more compelled you were to venture even deeper. And once its foreboding barriers had allowed you in, the solitude and unassuming beauty and light enraptured you. She turned her head to look at him, only to find him transfixed on her in a mirrored contemplation that made her shiver.

"I guess this isn't a day to be outdoors," Michael said with concern. "I'll walk you home."


	12. Chapter 12

"I would think someone like you would be happy to have a blade like this in his arsenal," said Fiona.

The windows rattled and a wave of fresh air breached the screens that had loosened in their frames over time, turning the room as briskly cold as it was outside. But, it was too invigorating to shut the windows; the breeze from outside breathed life into the room and saturated the air with the heady aroma of withering summer perennials. The howling wind set an ominous tone that suited them both.

Michael and Fiona sat talking in the living room while waiting for the rest of the men to arrive for the meeting. She was showing him Donovan's knife collection. Michael was particularly disturbed by one with a short, curved blade. The blade was unlike those of traditional knives, and despite its small size, gave the impression that it could reach inside the abdomen of an unfortunate victim and make external what had once been internal.

Fiona brought the blade closer to his body, letting the tip glide down the center of his chest. If he breathed in too deeply, the rise of his chest would easily incite the knife to penetrate his skin and the vital structure lying beneath it.

"I would never carry a weapon that I wouldn't want to die by myself," Michael replied. Your own weapon can always be turned against you." Fiona did not respond right away, only stared at him with curiosity.

The sound of sizzling water broke the silence as a pot of steaming potatoes boiled over in the kitchen, and the starchy water met with the burner. Fiona jumped up and ran to prevent another culinary disaster. Michael looked down to find that the knife with the short, curved blade now rested firmly in his own hands.

Fiona hummed, lazily, a folk song her grandfather used to play for her. As she lolled through the slow, melodic tune she cut leeks with careful precision and stirred them gently into the pot. She folded in a pint of cream and, wondering whether or not Michael would enjoy the old family recipe, looked up to watch him as he talked logistics with Donovan. She found herself taking a new sense of satisfaction in preparing this meal, gratified that she could provide for at least one of Michael's basic human needs.

The team sat in worn recliners and sofas, assembled around the wooden crates that served for a coffee table. Fiona gazed at Michael where he had taken his place on the same old green sofa he had sat on the night he first partook in her cooking. The fascination she had for him on the first day they met had been met with no answers during the weeks they worked together. She knew no more about him now than on that night, and yet the enthrallment had evolved into a yearning that she could not explain. She watched as Michael lifted a spoonful of the thick soup to his mouth, a portion escaping the encompassment of his lips and trickling down the side of his chin. Fiona's mind wandered immediately and uncontrollably. She imagined herself at his side, gently pressing her lips to his chin and dragging her tongue across his barely visible stubble to trace the dribble back to his mouth. She wanted to feel the coarseness of his unshaven skin against her. Forcing herself back to reality, she smiled and stifled a laugh as he swiftly grabbed his napkin to mop up the evidence of his clumsiness. Michael looked up sheepishly, in hopes that nobody had noticed. The rest of the men rambled on raucously in between bites of potato soup, unaware of his blunder, but when his eyes reached Fiona he was met with a teasing expression that revealed she had seen the whole thing. Michael hung his head and shook it in feigned shame. From the corner of her eye, Fiona saw Donovan's glare. It shifted from her to Michael, then back to her. He had noticed their exchange, and sensed a lack of innocence in it. Fiona shifted her gaze away from Michael.

"Alright listen up everybody," Donovan announced. "The big night will be upon us soon, and it's time for us to go over the plan."

Michael looked up intently, ready to take in the information that he had been sent to retrieve.

Fiona concentrated fervently on Donovan's speech, but could tell that he was watching her suspiciously, now. She continued to stare everywhere but at Michael in order to prevent inciting Donovan's wrath. Finally, her eyes rested on the wall behind Michael, which harbored a faint hint of his form, projected onto the cement by a softly lit lamp nearby. She could make out his broad shoulders and the clean curve of his biceps. Even in this dim light, Michael cast a powerful shadow. And so, for the rest of the night, unable to trace the contours of his body with her eyes, she traced the contours of his silhouette.

Fiona ran her fingers across the gritty surface of the cement wall where Michael's dark figure had rested earlier that evening. Memories such as this would soon be all she had left of him.

"Fiona!" called Donovan from the bedroom. Donovan's expression had been trained on her all evening after he caught her exchange with Michael. The certainty that he would spend the better part of the rest of the night showing her who she belonged to made her shutter. And the tears that he would mistake for pleasure would really be tears of longing for a man she knew she would never have.

Michael solemnly walked the streets of Belfast, in need of some fresh air after a brief communication with his handler to update him on the night's meeting. He remembered who Fiona reminded him of, now; a beautiful foreign operative named Phaedra. She had been headstrong, destructive, and difficult to manipulate. In the end he had been ordered to assassinate her, and he had carried out his assignment without reserve.

Fiona possessed many of the same qualities as Phaedra, but something more that made her capture his attention in a way no one ever had. Wanting Fiona had become a way of life for Michael. Looking forward to seeing her consumed his thoughts. Their rare moments together were like punctuation to his days, each one marking the end and beginning of long stretches of time without her. It didn't matter, though. By this time Friday night Fiona would also be dead.


	13. Chapter 13

The darkness outside the cab was offset by a ribbon of red, green and yellow lights. The changing of the lights was futile at this hour; there were no other cars on the street. Consumed in his thoughts, Michael had walked until he realized that he no longer recognized his surroundings and was too far from his apartment to walk all the way back. He closed his eyes in exhaustion, and leaned his head back until it rested against the backseat. His exhaustion was more emotional than physical. At three in the morning on Friday the cab pulled up to his old brick building, and he crawled out of it like a haggard old man. Each step he took was a step closer to his future without Fiona, so he took them slowly. When he ambled through the door of his apartment, he dragged his leaden feet to the bed and collapsed without bothering to remove his shoes. He slept deeply, but he did not sleep peacefully.

* * *

Donovan sealed his image in Michael's eyes as authentically evil when he had presented the final details at the meeting. Merchant Warehouse wasn't really a warehouse. Situated alongside the murky waters of Gleason Canal in Belfast Harbor, the unassuming white building was dwarfed by the corporate offices of several major companies that made their homes in Mullan Industrial Park. It garnered little attention, which is exactly what a weapons manufacturer should do. This exercise in minimalism was abandoned when security measures were planned, and these security measures provided the impetus for inducting Michael McBride into Donovan's unit.

As a gift to his lover, Donovan granted Fiona the privilege of destroying the building after the unit members had gotten out. When emergency personnel diverted their resources to the explosion, the team would use their newly acquired supply to disrupt the import and export of the city by destroying key areas in the Port of Belfast. Michael had cringed inwardly at the thought of how many human lives would be lost in this excursion.

"You'll rig the explosives to go off prematurely, thus effectively ridding the world of one IRA splinter group," Michael's handler had told him with indifference after the meeting. 'And ridding me of Fiona,' Michael had thought.

Despite the heaviness in his body, the ache in the center of his chest, and the overwhelming feeling of foreboding, Michael had simply said "Consider it done."

Michael, Fiona, Donovan and the rest of the team closed in on the building, their footsteps muted with a practiced technique that only career criminals and spies could possess. Michael and Fiona stayed close to one another, each knowing that the end of this operation would mark the end of their assignments, and that they would never see each other again. The moon offered just enough light to make out the obstacles that they wanted to avoid and the target that they swiftly approached, but not enough light for Michael and Fiona to see each other fully before never seeing each other again. The group stopped, ducking behind a single story building as a cavalcade of trucks rumbled by.

Fiona watched Michael as he ventured ahead of the rest to make sure their path was clear. Though the darkness did not allow her to see it, she knew that there was an intensity in his eyes right now, offset by a gentle countenance that she was not yet ready to part ways with. She entertained the thought of going away with him after tonight, but wondered if she would be able to look the other way, knowing the kind of man that he was. She imagined greeting Michael at the door as he came home after a long day of plotting murder, his shirt spattered with fresh blood. He would kiss her sweetly after an arduous day without her, and gently caress her cheek with the same hand he had used to kill an innocent person an hour earlier.

'Could I enjoy the touch of that hand?' she questioned herself.

Michael struggled to concentrate fully on the operation. He wondered what life would be like knowing that Fiona no longer occupied some corner of the world, however far from him it might have been. A dump truck lurched off of its course then, striking a deep pot hole and splashing the muddy water it contained across his face and the front of his shirt. The shock of the icy water ejected all conscious thought and emotion from his mind. He was empty.

His thoughts flooded back just as quickly as they had withdrawn, along with a familiar sense of loneliness that had hung over him for most of his life. With the back of his sleeve he wiped away the icy water that had invaded his eyes and nose, and then he pressed on. Fiona and the team followed closely behind.

* * *

Michael escorted Fiona down a long corridor toward the center of the building, where she would deposit the C4. In various parts of the building that Michael had granted them access to, Donovan and the others were already collecting resources. Michael didn't bother to contemplate what they were doing, what they would be doing at the time the bomb went off, or the fact that none of them had any idea they would still be in the building when it happened. Remorse had not been a component of his training. However, he did think about what Fiona would be doing. Would it hurt, even just for a second? Would there be enough time for her to realize it was him? He knew the answer to these questions was no, but he felt no better.

"Michael, go do what you have to do," Fiona said. "I can take it from here."

He hesitated, then thought better of delaying his pain. "I'll see you outside," Michael lied. He realized these were his last words to her, and he wished they could have been more grounded in truth. He appeased himself with the knowledge that the end would be quick and painless for her and that she would never know of his intent. However, he knew that in killing Fiona he was about to acquire the deepest scar of his life. Unlike the ones that outlined his face and told a rich history of his dangerous past and of his present life as a spy, nobody would ever see this scar. It would go unnoticed by family, colleagues, and enemies alike, and no one would ever know how the mysterious woman from Ireland had gotten a hold of his soul.


	14. Chapter 14

Disarming bombs went against everything Fiona believed in. Michael McBride was a true artist, and it pained her to take a pair of wire cutters to such a beautiful piece.

She toyed with the idea of letting it go off. There was still time to get out if she didn't disarm it, and she could defect from the Provisional IRA to be with Michael.

"You idiot," She said to herself. "As if he would have you." Surely, he had someone at home waiting for him. She calmly raised her tool to the first wire, and began to strip away its red coating to reveal a copper interior. She made little effort to hurry. Oblivious to Michael's modifications to the timer, she worked with the relaxed, steady hand of a person who had plenty of time.

* * *

As a spy, you learn to compartmentalize. You separate the emotions of your personal life from your occupational obligations, because intermingling the two can result in poor decisions. Poor decisions like running toward a ticking bomb instead of away from it.

Michael's strong strides carried him as fast as he was capable of running, but the sense of urgency and the fact that the long corridor strangely had no doors, prevented him from gauging the distance he had gone or still had yet to go to reach Fiona. It made the sprint seem endless. His arms swung efficiently at his sides, and the pounding of his desperate footsteps amplified off of the walls. His quick, short breaths delivered much-needed oxygen to his laboring muscles, but he could feel his body fatiguing and knew it would soon reach a limit that no amount of mental strength could overcome. Drawing on a final source of energy, the origin of which he had no explanation for, he reached the doorway at the end, and rather than take the time to decelerate and turn the knob, he thrust the mass of his body into the steel door of the chamber where an unwitting Fiona stood.

The silence, as well as Fiona's concentration, was broken by a massive door crashing open, Michael's hurling mass making itself known as the force behind it.

"Fiona, we have to get out now! The explosives were constructed to go off five minutes early!" he confessed to her frantically. He maintained the Irish accent he had worn for the past several weeks, although at this point it was futile; he had just blown his own cover. The look of shock in Fiona's face was combined with a look of guilt. The wire cutters in her hand told him a more complete story; Fiona was tampering with the bombs. The wild look in his eyes changed to bewilderment.

"Are you trying to disarm my bomb?" he accused her, forgetting momentarily that they were both in grave danger.

"What do you mean you constructed it to go off five minutes ahead of the timer?" she yelled.

"No time to explain. The way I built those things, cutting a couple of exposed wires won't help. We have to run."

Fiona looked at the timer, which now read five minutes and thirty seven seconds, and realized the gravity of the situation. Michael grabbed her hand and with less than a minute left until the end of their lives, they broke out into a run down the corridor.

* * *

Neither looked back as the flash and thunder behind them claimed the warehouse and all of the lives within. The inferno threatened them still, launching out a wave of heat and pitching flaming debris into their path. Michael shielded Fiona from the worst of it, and paid dearly for his chivalry as he felt a hot piece of metal brand the back of his neck. The sirens in the distance grew louder, but a short gravel road led them quickly back onto the streets of Belfast. They stopped suddenly, realizing neither had planned for these circumstances.

"What now?" asked Fiona.

"We're dressed all in black, and walking away from an explosion in the middle of the night," Said Michael. "We need to get off the street."

A dark gap between two buildings awaited just feet away, and suggested to them that travelling on foot by way of alley would provide them with the most clandestine escape. They entered the narrow confines of the alley with Michael in the lead, and he reached behind to gently take Fiona's hand. Fiona recognized that this gesture was not necessary for strategic purposes. There was no need to take her hand to guide her; The alley decided where to take them. There was no need to grab hold of her to hurry her along; The protection the walls of the buildings gave them allowed them to walk at an unhurried pace. Michael had taken her hand merely for the sake of holding it. His grasp was firm, his skin rough and weathered by years of enduring sandstorms and causing firestorms. Fiona contemplated the implications of everything that had happened tonight. The risk that Michael took in coming back for her gave her hope that he might actually want her. His deviation from Donovan's plan gave her a glimmer of hope that he might be a good person after all.

'It doesn't matter,' she thought to herself in a moment of realization. 'Whatever he turns out to be, I want him.'

Fiona continued to follow, enjoying the view before her of Michael's sleek form confidently forging through the shadows and rubble of unwanted items that had been carelessly discarded from the windows overhead. She envisioned that sleek form holding her when they arrived home, and lowering her into bed. She wanted him, and she did not want to endure another night of wanting without having. She wondered If he would accept her invitation inside when they reached the apartment she had shared with Donovan.

'But, I could never make love to him in that cold harsh, environment,' she thought.

Michael turned to her, as if in answer, and said "We'll go to my apartment. It's closer."

Fiona had longed to go back to his run-down apartment since the night she left it so abruptly. Despite its modest size and meager furnishings, it was the one place where she had felt warm and safe since coming to Belfast. It was the one place where she felt impassioned, and though she did not act on it, she often fantasized that she had. She worried now that she missed her opportunity to be with him.

"Choose yar steps wisely, unless ya want to get hurt!" shrieked a voice from the shadows ahead. The threat of the homeless woman, who made her home beneath a refrigerator box and protected it with the watchful eye of a guard dog, pulled Fiona from her musings.

Michael carefully guided Fiona to pass behind him, as if the woman might also pounce like a guard dog, then swiftly stepped around her cherished home. He chastised himself silently for not being more vigilant, as he too, had been consumed in his own thoughts. This marked the first time Michael had ever defied orders….with regards to his career, anyway. Who was this woman he risked his life and career for? The series of failed detonations that plagued them before this night, along with the image of Fiona attempting to disarm his bomb tonight, suddenly made sense. Perhaps, she was not the murderer he had come to believe she was. 'Still, a little bit too adept with explosives to be completely innocent, though,' he thought.

Despite his uncertainty of Fiona's identity and character, Michael was certain that he wanted to spend the rest of the night with her. He hoped it would not be too presumptuous for him to ask her to stay tonight. The wine glass she sipped from the first night she visited still lay on his coffee table. Maybe she would be open to the warming effects of another glass, this time augmented by the heat from his body. A dumpster up ahead announced itself, then, with the smell of rotten food emanating from within, and as they passed it the dim light of a street lamp became evident just outside the ally. They emerged nonchalantly back onto the public streets, but with no cover from passing police, they quickened there pace to a brisk walk. Though they both knew what they were hurrying from, neither had any idea of what they were hurrying to.

They reached Michaels building, and slowed to a stop, each unsure of the other's intentions. Fiona stood with her back pressed against the eroded brick exterior. Michael leaned toward her, bracing his body against the wall with his arms extended on either side of her. In the first opportunity for honesty the two had ever shared, they said nothing. With Donovan gone the only things standing between them were the lies each had told about their identities.

"Who are you?" Fiona demanded through heavy breaths.

When you work in covert ops, you know that the art of maintaining your cover id means selling it even harder when you've been compromised. If you're experienced, you know that this is an especially important skill for someone in US intelligence, because nothing pisses off foreigners more than being deceived by an American spy. Michael knew that this simple truth was more relevant to his present situation than ever before. He could not afford the risk of telling the truth to someone as volatile as Fiona Glenanne. He looked Fiona in the eye, and with a clear American accent, he said "My name is Michael Westen and I am an American Spy."


End file.
